


You Are Mine, And Mine Alone

by Kissed_by_Circe



Series: Let's Play Pretend [1]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Beta Wanted, Sexual Roleplay, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:34:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: “Has Arthur ever touched you like this, my dear, my love, my Genevieve?”The one where Henry VIII is really into roleplay ;)Henry VIII as Lancelot, Catherine of Aragon as Genevieve





	You Are Mine, And Mine Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Henry VIII (and some of his bros) surprised queen Catherine dressed up as Robin Hood and his Merry Men in January 1510 – so I thought he might have been into roleplay 

June 1513 

“I cannot believe that we’re doing this. What if anyone sees?” 

He drowns her whispers in his kisses, long and hungry and full of passion. His hands, big and soft and clumsy, tug impatiently at her bodice, but he looks over his shoulder nevertheless. Seeing that they are alone in this corridor, at least for another few minutes, his eyes and fingers and lips return to her, to her hair, her face, her body. 

She is a sight to behold, his Genevieve, with her fox blonde hair and scarlet red dress and ruby encrusted crown, fiery and bold and delicate all at once. She’s his queen, he’s her knight, and he runs his hands through her gold kissed locks, over her shoulders, tugging her sleeves down to bare her milky skin to his gaze. 

Her skin tastes like strawberries, and he tastes her, trails a way of kisses down from her collarbones to the valley of her breasts, while she breathes his name like a prayer. Lancelot, Lancelot, Lancelot. He’ll never tire of that sound, and he’ll never tire of the way she moans and sighs and whimpers when his hand sneaks under her skirts, and how they become louder when his fingers brush over her knee, her thigh, and then, finally, her wet lips. 

He pins her to the wall, pushes her deeper into the small alcove, and kisses her once more to stifle her moans when his fingers finally enter her, eager and fast. The hallway is empty still, but someone could happen upon them any moment, a servant, one of her ladies, a knight or some lord. His broad shoulders would shield her from anyone’s gaze, would hide her wild hair and the bodice he pulled down, but still… 

The thought of someone stumbling over them makes him hurry and makes him harder than ever before. They would call for the king, and he would have his head for touching his queen. He groans into her shoulder, bites the sensitive skin there, marks her as his. 

“Has Arthur ever touched you like this, my dear, my love, my Genevieve?” 

“He never had me. Never. Ple- please, Lancelot, I’m so close.”, and then, breathless, “Take me.” 

Their eyes meet, hers like a star pierced night’s sky, his like a stormy cloud ready to devour her. Hiking her skirts up, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his pants, takes mere moments, and he has to stifle a groan when he enters her, feels her hot and wet around him. They move as one, knowing the other’s body like their own, move as fast and hard as possible. He picks her up, she’s light as a feather, and she craps her legs around his hips, taking him as deep as she can. 

She’s his. Not Arthur’s. Genevieve never belonged to the other man, she only belonged to him. The thought of Arthur touching her, kissing her, taking her, is unbearable for him, but his jealousy and their fear of discovery only adds to his lust. Arthur will never have her like this, he’ll never have her sweet sighs, he’ll never feel her wetness, he’ll never see the love in her eyes. 

“You are mine, and mine alone.”, he hisses through his gritted teeth, and, “Say it. Say that you belong to me.” 

“I’m yours, I’ve always been yours.” 

Her walls clench around him, and he comes with a groan, his face buried in her shoulder. They stay like this for one moment or a thousand, lost in each other, before she straightens up. She’s still panting when they help each other dress. She laces his pants, he tugs her bodice back up. Her lips are swollen from his kisses, her hair is tangled, her eyes dark, and there’s a mark on her shoulder where he bit her. He runs his thumb over it, gently, carefully, and places a hand on her stomach with worry in his eyes, but she smiles up at him. 

“He’s fine”, she whispers, “and he’s yours. Not Arthur’s. No need to be jealous.” 

She smirks, pats the bump, still too small to notice for anyone but them, and runs her hands through her tangled hair. Looking down her bright red silk dress, cut like the ones the queens of old might have worn, she adds, “We should go back to our chambers, and put on proper clothes. And a headdress. I can’t believe I left my rooms without a hood.” 

“You’re lovely without your hood, and you would love you even if you wore a beggar’s rags.” 

They grin at each other, and he looks down, in his way of his, both confident and shy, and nods to her belly. 

“You know, if it’s a boy… we could call him Gawain. Like King’s Arthur’s nephew.” 

“Hm… maybe, your majesty. We’ll talk of it later. But now, I have to retreat to my chambers, and dress like a modern queen.” 

She wears his favourite smile, the one that’s broad and pearly and golden, the one that’s only for him and their child. They part ways, only for some moments, barely enough time to go to their rooms and get dressed before they have to attend mass, and Henry looks after her, his queen, his wife, his Genevieve. 

His brother never got to touch her, and the thought makes him grin.


End file.
